


Inquisition

by txorakeriak



Category: Hornblower (TV)
Genre: Corporal Punishment, M/M, Whipping, spoiler warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-18
Updated: 2015-11-18
Packaged: 2018-05-02 03:15:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5231828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/txorakeriak/pseuds/txorakeriak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four nights after Captain Sawyer's fateful fall down the hold, Lieutenant Buckland starts a private investigation into the matter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inquisition

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for "Mutiny" and "Retribution".

”A word, if you please, Mr. Wellard.”

Startled, the young midshipman turned around. “Mr. Buckland, sir?”

It was already dark, and Wellard had difficulties making out the face of the person standing in the shadows. The laudanum was blurring his vision. He had been administered a dose again earlier that day, after what had been his fourth appointment with the cat of nine tails in a row. It took his mind off the pain and dulled his senses, but he knew that the short-lived relief it provided came at a price. Already he could feel the addictive pull of the drug, clouding his judgement and making him crave higher doses, _more._

Henry Wellard was sixteen years of age and a wreck, broken by unwarranted corporal punishment and opiates. Unfit for duty – but he could never show it. Even the slightest sign of inefficiency could provoke further punishment. So he maintained the façade as best he could and bravely walked the thin line, knowing that the smallest of mistakes could be his last.

When the other man emerged from the shadows, it was indeed, Buckland, though he was barely a shadow of his former self. His blue coat was dirty, unbuttoned, his shirt ruffled. He was missing his hat, and his hair was a mess. Wellard forced himself not to appear too surprised. What could Buckland want from him, at this hour? He had expected the First Lieutenant to be belowdecks, handling the matter of the injured Captain Sawyer. After all, that was where had spent the entire day, discussing the captain's mental and physical state with Dr. Clive while leaving the ship in the other lieutenants' care.

“Mr. Wellard, if you would join me in my cabin.” His breath smelled of spirits. Without another word, he turned around and walked away. He didn't make sure Wellard would follow him; he _knew_ he would. By then, it was common knowledge among the entire crew of the ship that the young midshipman would rather fall on his own sword than disobey a command from his superior officers.

Dutifully, Wellard followed him, wondering. Was something the matter with the captain? Had his state worsened? Would someone else have to assume command? Or had Buckland and Dr. Clive discovered that he, Henry Wellard, had been a witness to the events that had led to the captain's accident? If they had, it would only be reasonable to pounce on him. The other lieutenants would keep their silence, but he, the broken little midshipman, he had his entire future before him. He would try and save himself. He would talk, eventually.

Only he wouldn't. His future, which only a few months ago had looked so bright and promising, was in ruins. No self-respecting captain would want him on his ship after everything that had happened on the _Renown_. Even if the exact details never became public knowledge, they would know that Sawyer despised him and punished him accordingly. They would consider him spoiled goods, a recipe for disaster.

As soon as he had entered Buckland's cabin and closed the door behind himself, the first lieutenant pounced on him, catching him entirely off guard. Taking advantage of their difference in height and weight, Buckland pressed him against the wall with considerable force, pinning his hands above his head. Wellard could hardly breathe.

He was perfectly aware that resistance was futile. Even worse, Buckland would most certainly interpret it as an act of defiance and punish him for it. He had no choice but to wait until the first lieutenant was ready to talk, ready to make demands. So he let himself be pinned to the wall by Buckland's tall frame, trying not to provoke him further. “How did the captain fall down the hold?" Buckland hissed at him, incapable of hiding his agitation. "Who pushed him?” The lieutenant was too close, his face almost touching Wellard's. His breath, loaded with brandy and wine, was hot on the younger man's cheek, piercingly sharp like a thousand needles.

Wellard shuddered despite himself. He was in no position to put up a fight. How far would Buckland go to obtain the information he craved so desperately? Would he beat him? Torture him?

He could recall the scene perfectly, every detail of it had been engraved in his mind. He had seen Lieutenant Kennedy step towards the captain, pace slow but steady. He had seen Lieutenant Hornblower advance from a different direction. He had seen Sawyer taking one step backwards, then another, then another. Both lieutenants had reached out to the captain when he was finally falling down, neither of them had caught him. He had not been able to see more, hiding in the darkness behind a stack of crates, but it had been enough.

Did Buckland suspect that he had seen it all happen, or did he merely think the others had confided in him?

“I don’t know, sir,” Wellard said finally, his voice a mere whisper. The wooden planks that constituted the cabin wall pressed against his back and his still sore backside, making him wince. Buckland's grip on him was relentless, splinters digging into the back of Wellard's hands. He struggled briefly against them in no real attempt to get free, knowing it would be impossible.

Visibly irritated by Wellard’s response – or the lack of it – Buckland slammed the younger man's hands against the wall and crashed the lithe body under his own. “You are a fool to believe I will let you go so easily," he breathed into his ear, hotly. "I am your superior officer. You serve me. Have you forgotten so quickly how the Navy punishes disobeyance?"

Oh yes, Buckland was drunk, and most alarmingly so, but Wellard figured he would only make it worse if he remarked on it, so he kept quiet. There was nothing he could say. Buckland let out a low chuckle which was most definitely not borne of amusement. “So the captain was right after all. You _are_ of the sulking sort. Maybe I know how to loosen your tongue…”

Before Wellard knew what was happening, the other man pulled him away from the wall and tossed him on top of the table. His hands landed on his backside in with a hard smack, making his eyes fill with tears. Buckland knew exactly what he was doing. His fingers dug roughly into the fabric of his breeches, squeezing the younger man's abused backside hard before pulling back and slapping him again. The raw cloth rubbed against Wellard's sore skin, across the marks left by the bosun's cane earlier that day. Wellard flinched, pressing his lips together fiercely and almost biting his tongue bloody in a vain attempt to quench the pain. But he wouldn't break.

The fourth slap tore his wounds back open, but he uttered no more than a loud gasp. He would remain loyal to the two lieutenants who had stood by him when the whole world had been intent to see him miserable. If his silence could help them, he would be silent. He would do anything to protect them, no matter if he had to suffer for it.

Wellard’s brave resolution made Buckland’s addled blood boil with anger. "Damn you, boy! If you will not do as you are told, I will have to employ more stringent methods!"

He seized him by his shoulders and pulled him off the table, a small, cruel smile spreading on his lips as he saw that Wellard was at his mercy, not resisting, not fighting back. Suddenly, a thought seemed to occur to him. In one quick motion, he turned the younger man around and shoved the limp, defenceless body against the wall again. Blood welled from his nose at the force of the impact, but he had no time to dwell on it. Suddenly, hot hands were on the buttons of his breeches, tugging impatiently, and only a moment later, his breeches were pulled down. For a few seconds, the cool night air soothed his skin, feeling almost like a soft caress. Then, a hot crotch pressed against him from behind, the inebriated lieutenant's hardness unmistakable.

If Wellard had previously wondered how far Buckland was willing to go to find out how the captain had come to fall down the hold, he was wondering no more.

“Please don’t…” Wellard whimpered through chapped lips, eyes widening in fear. He wanted to beg him to stop, to let him go, but he had no strength left in him.

Buckland grabbed his hips, strong fingers bruising the soft skin as he steadied him, positioned his length against Wellard's hole, and with a quick and violent thrust, he dove in, burying himself up to the hilt. Wellard did cry out, then, finally losing control over himself. The pain was too much, much worse even than the dozens of lashes he had received over the course of the past few days. He felt as if Buckland was ripping him apart from the inside and crushing him into dust from the outside at the same time. Without mercy, Buckland’s pelvis made contact with the torn flesh of Wellard’s backside every time he thrust into the tight, aching heat.

The other man seemed to practically relish the anguish he caused, savouring the young man's cries and stifled sobs. A hand landed roughly on Wellard’s mouth when he became too loud, muffling the sounds that could give away what they were doing and risk both their lives. Wellard thought about biting it, but he was too weak for rebellion, becoming weaker with the moment. No, he would have to endure it. The only thing he could do now was pray it would be over soon. Tears fell from his eyes in a river and he sobbed silently, chest heaving and falling against the hard wall as Buckland pounded into him.

After what seemed an eternity, he feltthe other man stiffen, then shudder against him briefly before emptying his slick seed into Wellard’s torn, bruised backside. When he was done, he pulled out and turned away.

Wellard tumbled to the floor, breathing heavily, his throat dry from crying. He was aching all over, defiled, filthy. Slowly, he opened his eyes and, through a veil of the tears, glanced around him. The cabin was dark, but he could make out Buckland’s tall figure standing at the washbasin, cleaning himself. A small candle flickered on the desk, giving him enough light to see himself, the dark marks on his skin and his own blood on his hands, on his breeches, between his legs. What a poor, pathetic sight.

“Get out,” Buckland hissed sharply, leaving little doubt about what would await Wellard if he disobeyed that order.

Hastily, the midshipman re-buttoned his breeches, grabbed his coat, and stumbled out of the room.

He floundered clumsily across the deck for a while, bumping against crates and planks in his aimlessness. If he passed anyone in the dark corridors, he didn't notice.

How was he supposed to return to duty in this state? He could barely walk. Every step was agony. All the laudanum in the world would not be enough to dull the sharp bolts of unbearable pain that flashed through him at the slightest move.

Not that there was any chance of getting more laudanum for his pain. Dr. Clive controlled the ship's supply, and he would demand an explanation first, even insist on an examination, before administering more of the stuff. Clive was a drunk bastard, but he wasn't a fool.

When Wellard finally regained his bearings, he found himself a few steps away from the trapdoor leading to the hold, right where Captain Sawyer had had his accident. Darkness surrounded him. There were no lamps, no windows.

Breathing deeply, the midshipman allowed himself to sink slowly to the floor, gritting his teeth as his abused body came into contact with the hard wooden floor. He might just as well spend the rest of the night there. Nobody would see him, nobody would come looking for him here. They would assume he was in the midshipman's berth, nursing the wounds from his earlier whipping with brown paper and vinegar.

Suddenly, he was overcome by a strange sense of pride, of accomplishment. He had held his tongue with Buckland. He had remained steadfast, protected his friends as he had sworn he would, and not breathed a single syllable that would get them into trouble.

For the rest of his life, his body would remember the price he'd had to pay for his silence. Hornblower and Kennedy would never know.

But he had paid it gladly.

 ***

When the Spanish prisoners shot Wellard during their uprising aboard the ship, Acting Captain Buckland was awash with relief.

A premature reaction, as it turned out.

With the help of an influential patron he had secured for himself through connections right after the _Renown_ had made berth in Kingston, the court-martial eventually acquitted him, finding a more suitable and less protected scapegoat in the mortally wounded Lieutenant Kennedy.

Marrying the admiral's eldest daughter, a sickly, plump woman of thirty, had been a small sacrifice to pay in return for his life and the promise of a new start.

But when the last guest had left and the newlyweds retreated to the bedchamber, the abominable crime Buckland had committed aboard the _Renown_ took its toll. He was not able to execute their marriage. All he could see in his betrothed’s face was Wellard, eyes filled with tears, lips pressed together fiercely as he wept with shame and pain.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published on 9th-Oct-2005 10:22 am.


End file.
